


Pictures of Matchstick Men

by saturni_stellis



Category: Monty Python RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Hand Jobs, Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Porn Magazines, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:59:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28298613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturni_stellis/pseuds/saturni_stellis
Summary: Terry is made aware of some literature in Graham's bathroom and starts learning some things about himself.
Relationships: Graham Chapman/Terry Jones
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Pictures of Matchstick Men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bean_allusions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bean_allusions/gifts).



> I was absolutely delighted to see Terry/Graham requested for Yuletide, and I just couldn't resist adding something to the very small pile of fic that exists for them! Thank you for asking for them. I'm so glad there's someone out there who seems to like this pairing as much as I do :D 
> 
> The title is stolen from the Status Quo song of the same name, the lyrics of which work perfectly for the fic. The sound is fairly good for the mood too! 
> 
> My idea whilst writing this was that it took place during the preparation for the first series, but that's not too important for the story.

Michael dragged Terry along the corridor by his sleeve, shushing him as they crossed the landing. The dulcet tones of the men on the lower floor echoed upward. Terry should be down there with them, not up on the landing, sneaking around Graham’s house with a half-cut Michael. 

“Look, look…” Michael giggled profusely, pulling Terry into the bathroom and crouching beside the sink. 

Under a number of books that looked like they hadn’t so much as seen a thumb brush over their pages was a pile of crumpled magazines. Micheal pulled one out he seemed to know was there and shoved it into Terry’s hands. The title, ‘DRUM’, plastered in red capitals, caught Terry’s eye first, but below it, the more prominent picture of a man in very small, very tight shorts (and little else), drew his attention fairly more quickly. 

“Christ, Mike!” Terry piped up. 

Before he could so much as open the first page, the bathroom door flung open, forcing them both straight. Terry flung the magazine back down so it fell haphazardly across the pile of books. 

Graham gave them a small frown from the doorway. “What are you up to, children?” 

“Nothing, nothing! Terry was just showing me something, that’s all.” 

Terry’s voice pitched a few notes higher than normal. “Michael!” 

“Well, would you like to come downstairs and help us figure this out?” 

Michael nodded, almost skipping past Graham as he grinned up at him. As Terry followed, he avoided Graham’s gaze, walking past him sheepishly, trying his utmost not to look back at the magazine. 

*

They didn’t write at Graham’s often, so Terry had to turn back on himself before he finally found the bathroom. Reaching for the seat, something caught his eye, something he’d long since forgotten. The last time he was in this bathroom must have been well over six weeks ago, and the sudden memory of it had his cheeks flushing hot. 

The call of nature mysteriously subsided when he pulled the magazine out by its corner, careful not to displace any of the books stacked upon it. He sat on the closed toilet lid and opened the first page cautiously. 

The men on the first spread all possessed great physiques, perfect hair, and oily, tanned skin. He couldn’t find it in himself to see what the attraction was, and yet, he couldn’t stop staring. Turning the page, he found a more mature looking gentleman holding up a screwdriver in a rather provocative manner. He was darker than the other boys, more exotic. According to the article, his name was Pedro Huarez and he was from Mexico. 

The next page was ear-marked. Terry turned it carefully, eyes widening as a more risqué image stole his attention. 

He jolted when the bathroom door shuddered. Someone was knocking.

“Terry? You still in there?” 

“Shit.”

He threw the magazine down again, flushed the empty toilet, and cleared his throat loudly. “Yes, yeah I’m coming!” 

The door opened to reveal Graham, hands in his pockets, a curious smile on his face. 

“What?” Terry asked. “Can’t you all write a link without me for once?” 

Graham gave him a knowing look, like he knew exactly what he’d been getting up to in there, and closed the bathroom door behind him.

It wasn’t until Terry was back downstairs that he remembered why he excused himself in the first place. Too embarrassed to go back upstairs for fear of another one of Graham’s looks, he spent the rest of the meeting desperate for a piss. 

*

The third time Terry was in Graham’s bathroom, the magazine was gone. He rifled through the small collection of literature but there was nothing of any interest…even for someone of Graham’s tastes. 

Terry had been one of the last to stay, and the only other remaining now was Eric. As he came out of the bathroom, he heard the front door open and Eric bidding Graham goodbye. Just the two of them now then. 

Terry peered across the landing when he came to the top of the stairs. He felt a real sense of discomfort at the instinctual thought of sneaking into Graham’s room, looking for something he knew he had no right to go looking for. He shook the feeling off and went to descend the stairs. Instead, his nose met Graham’s chest and he jumped almost out of his skin, grabbing the bannister to steady himself. 

“Jesus _Christ_ , Graham!”

“Sorry, darling.”

“You’re like a ghost!” 

“What were you staring at back there?” Graham looked over Terry’s shoulder towards the bedroom. “Another ghost?”

“Of course not, don’t be silly,” Terry said, heart still racing. 

“Are you okay? Did you have too much wine?” 

Terry frowned up at him, still gripping the bannister, his sweaty palm clenched around the dark wood. “I’m fine…” 

“You were in the toilet for so long, I thought I should come and check you hadn’t passed out.” 

“I only had one bloody glass,” Terry grumbled. 

“Yes, but you’re such a small little thing.” Graham smiled and reached out to stroke the collar of Terry’s shirt. 

“Oh, stop it,” Terry said, pulling away sharply. He let go of the bannister, walking around Graham and making his way downstairs. 

“Do you want another drink then?” Graham asked, following close behind him. 

“Has everyone else left?” Terry walked into the empty living room, knowing full well they had.

“Yes, it’s just you and me now,” Graham said, and as Terry looked back over at him, he leant against the wall. Terry could’ve sworn he was suggesting something. 

“Then I should go too,” he said quickly, grabbing his coat off the back of his chair. 

“Sure I can’t tempt you? I’ve got a nice unopened bottle of Lancers in the kitchen.” 

Terry shook his head, shrugging his coat over his shoulders. The wine _had_ gone to his head, but he wasn’t about to admit that. Besides, he didn’t fancy walking all the way back to Golders Green. 

“Something a little stronger, then?” 

Terry paused, watching Graham a while, waiting for him to suggest whatever it was he had in mind. He was pretty sure he’d only ever seen him put tobacco in that pipe, but if there was the promise of Graham having something a bit more tantalising… 

“Some light reading maybe?” Graham said, raising an eyebrow. “A magazine for the journey home?” 

Terry’s eyes flitted from side to side, his face burning hot. He tried to look as confused as possible, but he’d never been too good at acting on the spot, not without a script or weeks of preparation. 

“What are you talking about?” he mumbled, voice sticking in his throat. 

“‘Terry was just showing me something, that’s all!’” Graham’s impression of Michael left a lot to be desired, but Terry knew exactly what he meant. 

He rolled his eyes. “It was Michael who showed it to _me_. And I wasn’t interested. I’m not interested.” 

Terry wished Graham wasn’t standing in the doorway. He knew he wouldn’t stop him from leaving, but he really would’ve preferred an escape route that wouldn’t involve brushing up against him.

“It’s okay to be curious, Terry.” 

“I’m not bloody curious!” He wasn’t angry, but he hated the way Graham managed to make him feel ten years younger, like he’d been caught by his dad with those rude playing cards all over again. “Can I just go home now, please?” 

Graham raised his eyebrows and outstretched his arm, as though indicating that nothing stopped him. 

Terry bundled past quickly, like a sad dog with its tail between its legs. He sped towards the front door, and as he tugged it open muttered a short, “See you at rehearsal,” under his breath. The door slammed closed behind him. 

*

There was a lot to be said for two nights of good sleep. Terry’s head was clear. The embarrassment of his little “conversation” with Graham subsided as quickly as it appeared, and with the filming of the series fast approaching, there was little else on his mind but making sure everything was ready. 

It wasn’t until he was at Michael’s when he realised that in his hurried escape two nights prior, he’d left his script and all their notes on Graham’s table. 

“Well, I’m not giving you that responsibility again! Did you stay late and have too much to drink?” Michael asked with a small smile. 

Terry would’ve preferred it if he was angry. God, why couldn’t he just be angry for once? Then Terry could get angry too and not have to dread the thought of going to Graham’s on his own again. 

“I’m not driving all the way up to Archway! You left it there, you go get it.” 

“Mike please. Just this once! I’ll… I’ll make us lunch.” 

“I’m not letting you loose in my kitchen.” 

“I’ll buy you lunch then.” 

“No! Fuck off, I’m not driving to Archway. What’s the problem anyway, you just have to nip in and grab it?” 

Terry chewed his lip, pacing Michael’s kitchen floor, trying desperately to think of any excuse in the little time he had before it all started looking very odd. But it was too late: it already looked odd, and Michael was staring up at him from his chair, eyebrows furrowed.

“Why don’t you want to see Graham?” 

Terry stopped pacing. “I’m not bothered about seeing him.” 

“Has something happened between you two?”

“No.” 

Michael’s eyes narrowed. 

“Nothing’s happened. I’m just... I’m… hungover. I don’t want to drive.” 

Michael snorted. “As if! I’d know if _you_ were hungover, dear. Something’s happened.” 

“No it hasn’t.” 

“Did Graham touch you inappropriately?” 

“Mike, for fuck sake.” 

There was no way of getting out of it. He could’ve made it easier for himself, just told Michael about the other night, but that would mean admitting that he had been looking for the magazine, and right now, he just didn’t want that line of questioning. Not even from Michael. 

Half an hour later, he stood on Graham’s doorstep, freezing cold because he’d forgotten to bring his coat, waiting for him to answer the door. Why he didn’t have the forethought to call ahead to make sure he was actually home was beyond him. Half twelve… for all he knew Graham could be at the pub already. 

Then the lock turned, and the door opened. 

The man on the other side of the door was neither Graham nor any man Terry had seen before. He was small and sleight and had sharp dark eyes that frowned at Terry as he took the cigarette from mouth, blowing a puff of smoke in his face. Pulling his dressing gown tighter around his body, he tilted his head. 

“Can I help you?” 

There was a small part of Terry that wanted to kick the door open and push this boy aside, but he refrained, letting out a small huff of air. 

“Is Graham in?” 

The boy closed the door in Terry’s face, forcing him to take a step back, his face dropping as he waited. He was about to knock again when the door reopened, and Graham appeared, hair sticking up everywhere, eyes red and puffy as he smiled down at Terry. 

“Terry! Sorry about Jorge. He’s Portuguese. Isn’t that interesting?” 

Terry shrugged, and for a moment his mind went blank, completely forgetting why on earth he was there in the first place. He stood on the doorstep as he stared up at Graham, completely lost for words, cheeks red and breath swirling in front of him in the cold. 

“Do you... want to come in?” Graham finally said. 

“No. I want my script please.” 

Ten minutes later Terry was back in his car, bombing across North London back to Hampstead, script and notes on the passenger seat. 

_Jorge_. He’s _Portuguese_. 

Terry giggled to himself before having to brake hard at a red light he nearly missed, forcing the pile of papers into the footwell. 

He sighed, leaning down to pick them up, and as he did, noticed they were a little thicker in volume and heavier in weight than he remembered. For a moment he thought Graham had accidentally given him the wrong papers, but as he picked it out, the bright colours and glossy cover were unmistakable. The copy of _DRUM_ that was once in Graham’s bathroom now lay atop Terry and Michael’s scribbled notes and handwritten sketches. 

“You bastard, Graham…” Terry mumbled to himself, before the car behind blew their horn and he was forced to drive back to Michael’s with the magazine in the corner of his eye for the remainder of the journey. 

*

Trying to get some peace over the Christmas break was proving easier said than done. It seemed as though his mother was intent on getting every single member of the family over in the space of two days, just so she could parade Terry in front of them. Once it was time to go back to London, he never wanted to hear the words _Monty Python_ ever again. It was as though the name had turned into some unwanted guest he couldn’t shake off. Still, he knew that in a day or two he’d feel different, and if he really admitted his true feelings, he was missing the group already. All of them. Even John. 

He slumped into bed at a quarter past eleven on Boxing Day night, curling into a ball and sighing at the feeling of being back in his own bed and not the tiny one his parents were so intent on keeping despite it being the same one he’d had since he was fifteen.

As he kicked some of the debris off the end of the mattress, he sat up to make sure he wasn’t tipping any important papers into any of the half empty mugs of tea or bowls of old cereal on the floor. As he did, his eyes caught the magazine Graham had so brazenly slipped between the pile of scripts a few weeks ago. 

He looked at it for a few seconds, as though waiting for it to magically disappear, before caving in and reaching for it. He fell back against the bed, flitting through the pages curiously, landing on the one he’d got to back in Graham’s bathroom, before he was interrupted by the man himself. 

Clearing his throat, Terry scanned the pictures on a page titled, “ _Blonde Drum - the best of blondes!_ ” 

Boasting a centrefold in colour, Terry found himself drawn to one of the men in the photo, body dripping wet as he posed on a beach, tan lines around where his trunks should have been. Like all the others, he was muscular and more toned than anyone Terry had seen in real life - save for perhaps some of the rugby players he was up against at school. Still, none of them were quite so macho as this man. As he leafed through the magazine, blonde haired, blue-eyed boys stared back at him from its crumpled pages, and he couldn’t help but think of Graham. 

Perhaps it was that the literature itself had been gifted to him (thrust upon him) by Graham, or the fact that Terry was wondering how many times Graham had looked through this particular periodical. Maybe it was merely the simple fact that he was tired that the men on the pages were starting to morph into Graham. It didn’t stop him being alarmed by the awakening of an erection beneath his trousers. 

Terry closed the magazine, throwing it onto the floor, curling back into the mattress and trying to ignore the weight between his legs. 

After trying to get to sleep, the strain of fabric against his member was beginning to get uncomfortable, so he rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling before clenching his eyes closed and caving in. 

The quicker it was out of his system, the less guilty he’d feel about thinking about Graham whilst he masturbated in his bed like a horny school boy. It didn’t stop him seeing himself in that bathroom again, caught by Graham as the man smiled down at him, hands coming out to touch his collar, fingers creeping up onto his neck, into the back of his hair, tugging on it gently. 

“ _Keep going_ …” the fantasy-Graham urged, as Terry continued pumping his fist. They weren’t in the bathroom anymore, but in Graham’s bed, Terry touching himself under his trousers as Graham stood above him, watching intently. 

Terry groaned into the darkness, squeezing his cock tightly. The magazine was still within reach on the floor… He could pull it back open, stare down at the pictures of Graham- no- the models… bring himself off with a visual and yet…

Fantasy Graham was so much more inviting, slipping a thumb into Terry’s mouth and telling him to suck. Between images of Graham in the doorway of his living room and standing tall in front of him on his landing, Terry lay back in his bed- Graham’s bed- legs spread and hips thrusting. 

“ _Just you and me now_ …” Graham whispered in his ear, voice heavy and deep. 

“Mmmm…” 

Terry was perspiring into the clothes he hadn’t bothered to take off, skin tingling all over as his hand stilled. He bit his lip to stifle the moan that wanted to escape, but Graham encouraged it. 

“ _Go on. I want to hear it._ ” 

His hand, or Graham’s hand, started moving again, this time harder and faster, not stopping until his whole body was shaking and he moaned unabashedly into Graham’s temple. 

He came hard, spilling over his hand and into his trousers, and somewhere in the fantasy that was already starting to ebb away, Graham kissed him hot and hungry, tongue slipping into his mouth without so much as a warning.

As reality came back into focus, the tongue in Terry’s mouth was just his own forefinger, and the hand down his trousers was of course very much his own. He wrenched his hands from himself and rolled back onto his side. 

He was asleep in a few moments, and he dreamed of nothing. 

*

At the pub, Terry shuffled into the seat next to Michael and barely left his side for the whole evening. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for the pair to be fixed up for a night, usually giggling at their own jokes, their own sketches that would never make it onto paper, let alone in front of a camera. This particular night, however, Terry had an ulterior motive for being stuck to Michael like glue, and it had nothing to do with being drunk or wanting to have a laugh. On the other side of the table sat the reason for Terry’s coy behaviour, and he avoided eye contact with those icy blues that seemed desperate to seek out his own. 

Graham was drinking a lot, which was another thing that wasn’t too out of the ordinary, especially when they had the next day off. Terry was matching him drink to drink, to the extent that halfway through the night, he had to excuse himself for some fresh air. The pub was far too stuffy and smoky. 

He was on the pavement for all of two minutes when he felt a hand at his shoulder.

“Oh. Hi, Graham.” The very person he’d been avoiding all night.

“Are you feeling alright? You look a bit peaky.” Graham pulled his pipe from his mouth, looking down at Terry with concern as he pulled his coat tighter around himself. 

Terry nodded, his head swishing like an unsteady sea; the motion instantly made him nauseous. “Just needed some air.” 

“You’ll let me know if you need anything, won’t you?” 

Not wanting to nod again, Terry let out a small hum, keeping his mouth closed for fear that if he opened it, he’d throw up all over Graham’s shoes. Whatever sickness he felt, however, instantly vanished when Graham leant down and kissed his cheek. The shock of such a gesture had Terry staring up at him, and in the corner of his eye he saw a group of men outside the door of the pub stop whatever it was they were talking about to look over at them. 

“Don’t do that,” Terry whispered, shivering, but not from the cold. 

Graham didn’t grace him with a retort, just smiled down at him before placing the pipe back in his mouth and turning on his heel. As he passed the group of men by the door he paused, standing tall and giving them a cold glare. 

“What?” 

They quickly looked away, going back to their hushed conversation, and Terry couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. 

*

They were already late, and their call time was in half an hour. That left half an hour to get across London in morning traffic, into the studio and dressed for the first rehearsal. Terry’s legs jiggled impatiently in the passenger seat as he sat, arms folded across his chest. 

Michael left the engine running as they waited outside Graham’s, the fan blowing hot air into Terry’s face as he sighed. 

“Stop doing that,” Michael said after a few minutes, and still no sign of Graham. 

“Doing what?” 

“Huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf. And…” Michael reached out and put his hand on Terry’s knee, stilling it from it’s jerking. 

“Maybe if I huff and puff hard enough I’ll blow his bloody house down so we won’t be so bloody late!” 

“He’s just coming!” a voice that didn’t belong to Graham shouted from the window. 

“Who was that?” Terry asked, leaning over Michael to try and get a look. 

“No one. Tel, sit back!” Michael groaned, pushing Terry back into his seat. 

“What’s he doing up there! He knew we had to be there at nine. I mean, what’s he playing at? And who shouted down just now, his fucking secretary? I think not!” 

Michael snapped his head towards Terry. “What are you having a go at me for? Wait for the man to arrive and take it out on him instead, will you? Christ.” 

“Sorry Mike…” Terry grumbled, slouching further into his seat. “I bloody will.” 

The back door opened, and Graham tumbled inside letting in a rush of freezing cold air with him. 

“Sorry chaps, terribly sorry. Bad morning.” 

“Nevermind, let’s just get going.” Michael lifted the handbrake, the car screeching as it pulled away. 

“Have a good night then did you Graham?” Terry piped up, looking at him in the rearview mirror. 

“Oh well… you know…” he trailed off, looking out the window as he reached into his jacket pocket for his pipe. 

An awkward silence fell across the three of them as Michael drove through the traffic which was luckily lighter than anticipated. The atmosphere was razor thin, and at any moment Michael was expecting Terry to burst into a tirade of swearing, but it never came. They showed their passes at the BBC entrance and as Michael parked up and turned off the engine, Graham was the first to speak. 

“God, I need a drink.”

He let himself out of the car as Terry and Michael sat in silence a few seconds longer. 

“Well, so much for taking it out on him, then!” Michael said with a small smile. “You’d let him get away with murder if he had the chance.” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Terry said, astounded. Michael said nothing, just reached over and grabbed the folder from the glove department. 

“Come on, Tel. If it's not obvious to you, it’s bloody well obvious to me. You’ve got a crush on Graham!” 

“Oh that’s ridiculous, Mike. Don't be so silly, crushes are for children.” 

The knock on the window forced Terry to yelp in surprise, turning his head to see Graham crouching down and pointing at his watch. 

“Are you two coming, or what?” 

“He’s got a bloody nerve,” Terry mumbled, reaching round to undo the seatbelt, catching Michael’s glare in his peripherals before he opened the door. 

“I’m sure you’ll take it out on him in your own little way.” 

With Graham in earshot, Terry had little else to respond with, so he stuck two fingers up at Michael instead. 

*

Wrap parties were always anticlimactic: a group of self-satisfied BBC execs pretending they were really impressed with whatever drivel you managed to churn out to good ratings, when in reality they were already thinking up ways to replace you with the next best thing. 

This party felt unexpectedly good though, with everyone on top form. Terry wondered if that was because they’d banned the top dogs from attending. They’d kept guests to a minimum, cast and crew only; a small, rowdy bunch who were out to forget about writing or filming for a few precious hours. 

As the evening went on, the guests dwindled, and it was around midnight when all of the six Pythons remaining were Terry, Graham, and Michael. Michael was already starting to make his excuses, saying he was tired and that his parents were visiting tomorrow, and somewhere behind his “apologies” was a look he gave Terry when his eyes flashed towards Graham. 

“Don’t go! Stay for another drink, Mike- just one more, please.” 

Michael took Terry’s arm from his shoulders, laughing as he untangled himself from the other man. “No, I’m going home. To bed. You stay! You have a good night, a really, really good night.” 

Terry shook his head, grabbing Michael again, wrapping his arm around his neck so their faces were almost touching. “Don’t do that. Come on Mike…”

When Michael pulled back a little to look into Terry’s face, he asked, voice low, “Did you steal that magazine from Graham’s bathroom?” 

Terry’s face dropped, his arm slipping away from Michael. “How do you know about that?” 

“I saw it under your bed when I was looking for that shot list we lost last month.” 

Terry swallowed uncomfortably, shifting away from Michael. 

“Terry, don’t be embarrassed. I was just curious, that’s all.”

He said nothing and looked across the room. It looked emptier than it had all night. Graham sat cross-legged on a chair, talking to someone Terry didn’t recognise, and his stomach somersaulted with something that definitely wasn’t alcohol. 

“I’m leaving, Terry. Have a good night. I mean it. And call me tomorrow. When your head’s clear.” 

They embraced again, and when Michael pulled away, Terry caught Graham staring in his direction. 

*

The smell of coffee woke him, pungent and strong and filling his brain. When Terry opened his eyes, the mug was being held directly under his nose. 

“Rise and shine, little sausage.” 

Graham’s voice was annoyingly clear considering the volume of alcohol he had knocked back the night before. Terry sat up slowly, the thinly knitted blanket pooling into his lap as he realised he was still on Graham’s sofa. 

Michael had suggested he have a good night, and he did, but probably not the one Michael was imagining him to. They’d ended up drinking for a considerable amount of time at the pub, before heading back to Graham’s, and after that, well it was all a bit of a blur… there was a lot of giggling, but nothing more sultry than that. Terry guessed that he’d eventually passed out on Graham’s sofa at some point, to the gentle tones of the Beach Boys coming from the record player. 

“Do you want something to eat?” Graham asked, and as he reached out to flatten the hair on Terry’s head, the other man paused, closing his eyes for a second or two, feeling Graham’s fingers softly stroke through his scalp. He almost could’ve purred…

When he pulled away, Terry shook his head, bringing the cup of coffee up to his lips. “I’m not hungry,” he mumbled, before sipping it slowly. 

Graham sat in the chair opposite him, giving him a small smile as they sat for a while in silence, Terry drinking his coffee and Graham smoking his pipe. Terry found himself struggling for something to say and he wondered if they’d ever actually been alone for any time at all before now. He couldn’t recall, apart from that one occasion in this very room all those months ago…

“Did you keep it?” Graham suddenly asked, and it was as though he was looking straight into Terry’s mind, reading his very thoughts. 

“Keep what?” Terry asked, knowing exactly what Graham was talking about. The magazine that was stashed under his bed had been looked through so many times now that the pages were wearing thin, but Terry wouldn’t have been able to recall any of the faces if someone paid him. They were always the same...blank faces that eventually took the form of the one staring at him now. 

“My copy of _DRUM_. Did you keep it?” 

Terry shrugged, bringing the mug back up to his lips so he didn’t have to show his face, despite it now being bereft of coffee. 

“Did you like it?” 

Terry shrugged again, his face suddenly feeling very hot; he knew he was blushing something fierce as Graham smiled at him. 

“Would you like to see some more?” 

Terry froze, eyes meeting Graham’s over his empty mug. His hand came down as he stared back at the other man. 

“Yes.” 

Next thing he knew, Terry was being led upstairs, Graham’s hand clasped around his wrist, not unlike the first night he was taken up here by Michael and led into the bathroom. Only this time, Graham took him straight past the bathroom and into his bedroom, telling him to sit on the edge of the bed.

Beside him, Graham knelt down and opened the little bedside table drawer. He pulled out a black and white copy of something called Crew and dropped it into Terry’s lap. 

“Now that’s a little more spicy than Drum, it has to be said.” 

Terry opened the first page as his mouth fell open. Spicy was an understatement. Downright hardcore might be the correct term for it. Whereas _Drum_ ’s pages were spattered with boys in provocative and suggestive situations, tight pants and crossed thighs covering their naughty bits, _Crew_ took the less subtle approach. 

He couldn’t help but giggle, like a giddy child knowing he was seeing something he shouldn’t. 

Graham looked round at him, and Terry shook his head. “Sorry… it’s just… I’ve never…” Terry didn’t know how to finish the sentence. He closed the magazine and lay it aside. “I’ve never seen that much of another man before.” 

Graham raised an eyebrow. “Oh, please. This coming from someone who went to public school?” 

Terry pouted as Graham came towards him, still on his knees. Their difference in height meant his face was almost level with Terry’s as he sat on the edge of the bed. 

“That’s a pretty sweeping generalisation.” 

Graham’s hands came to rest either side of Terry’s knees as he leant forward. “Not according to some of the stories John’s told me.” 

Terry’s fingers toyed with the edge of the magazine. “What stories?” he asked sheepishly. 

“Oh you know, boys in showers, prefects forcing favours, that sort of thing.”

Terry shifted, moving forward a little so his knees almost touched Graham’s stomach. “I never...did anything like that.”

Without warning, Graham’s arm came up to wrap around Terry’s waist, pulling him forward so his legs were forced apart, thighs either side of Graham’s waist. “Would you like to do something like it now?” 

Cautiously, Terry held Graham’s shoulders as if to steady himself. He nodded slowly. Before he knew it, Graham was pulling him into a kiss. It was the softest kiss he’d ever experienced, and it took him by such surprise he let out a small whine against the other man’s mouth. Graham was supposed to be bold and sure, a figure of confidence, but as he kissed Terry with such slow caution and gentleness, Terry found he was the one that opened his mouth first, his tongue sliding out to swipe Graham’s lower lip. 

It was like silent permission, and when his tongue crept into Graham’s mouth, the man was up on his feet, pulling Terry up with him, before pushing him back down against the bed. Terry had no choice but to spread his legs to accommodate Graham’s hips, pressing down against his own, forcing another moan from his lips. 

Somewhere between the kissing and the soft moaning, Terry noticed Graham’s hand between them, creeping its way to Terry’s flies, tugging the buttons open, and rubbing his crotch above the fabric. 

Panting, Terry clenched his eyes closed, trying to steady his libido. He didn’t want this to be over before it started, but he was already raging hard the moment Graham’s lips touched his, and the moment Graham’s hand was on his bare cock he knew he’d have to use all his restraint not to finish right there. He had no idea what Graham had in mind, but if he knew Graham, it wouldn’t be a slapdash hand job at ten AM. 

“I want to do you,” Terry said suddenly, finding his voice as Graham paused. Having something to distract him would hold him off a little while longer at least, and while he had no idea what the hell he was doing, he looked up at Graham with wide eyes. 

“Okay,” Graham said, pulling himself back onto his feet as Terry followed, shuffling so he sat at the edge of the bed. He made quick work of Graham’s trousers, tugging them open and pulling them down a little over his hips. He should’ve known he wouldn’t be wearing any underwear, but it shocked him all the same. 

He’d never seen another penis that close before, and pictures in a black and white magazine didn’t count. Still, he’d imagined this scenario enough times, brought himself off to the thought of it more than he cared to ever admit, and he may not know how the hell to do it, but he knew that he wanted nothing more than to have Graham in his mouth right now. 

When his lips wrapped around the tip and he sucked on it softly, Graham let out a long breath, squeezing a clump of Terry’s hair in his fist. 

“Oh, _Christ_. That’s... unexpected.”

Terry pulled back and looked up at him. “Shall I do it again?” 

Graham let out a soft laugh, gently pulling Terry’s head forward. “God, yes.” 

Terry took him again, this time with a little more confidence. And the more he did it, the more used to the taste he got, taking a bit more each time...a little deeper, a little wetter. It wasn’t hard to know what felt good and what didn’t; Terry had received good and bad blow jobs in the past. Every man was probably different though, and Graham was proving easy to read. He twisted Graham’s shirt in his fists as he moved forward again, taking him in as far as he possibly could without gagging, forcing a loud moan from the man standing above him. 

The distraction was proving a success, however. Terry’s cock strained to be touched, and he feared he’d have to try even harder now to hold back should Graham touch it. He tried to focus on the task in hand, running his tongue along the full length of Graham, feeling it grow impossibly larger in his mouth. It was a nice feeling, seeing and hearing Graham unravel like this, and knowing he was responsible for it.

It surprisingly didn’t take Graham long to reach his end, and he did so, unapologetically into Terry’s mouth, pulling out sharply so the majority of it spilled over his lips and down his chin. Even more surprising was the lack of Terry’s disgust at such an act, and although his shirt was probably ruined, he found himself even more turned on by it. Perhaps it was best he didn’t analyse that too much…

“Are you sure you’ve never done anything like that before?” Graham asked, once he had his breath back. 

Terry blinked up at him, shaking his head and licking his lips. “Never. I promise.” 

“It’s okay, I believe you.” 

Graham shoved Terry back against the bed, covering his mouth with his own again, and he didn’t seem to care that the remnants of his climax remained on Terry’s lips as he kissed him fervently. 

Legs spread once again, he wrapped his thighs around Graham’s waist, desperately thrusting up against him, feeling Graham’s still impossibly hard member press against his own. How any man managed to stay erect after receiving head like that was beyond him, but Terry found he was discovering plenty of things about male anatomy this morning. 

Graham pressed down against him, causing a lovely bit of friction between their legs, and Terry’s back arched, head rolling back against the bed. He felt no qualms about how loudly he was moaning or how desperately he grabbed at Graham with his hands. 

His trousers were tugged down his thighs, his underwear soon following suit before Graham was back on top of him, grabbing them both in one hand. Along with what Graham had left in him, and Terry’s already leaking, they slid against one another with an obscene sound. The feeling was almost too much to bear, and Terry found himself begging for more, writhing under Graham’s weight. 

Terry’s head turned into Graham’s neck, breathing him in, all aftershave and tobacco. It was so masculine, had Terry’s legs trembling as he felt Graham thrust harder into him, jerking them both in time with the movements of their hips. 

“Fuck...oh _fuck_.” Terry’s hands came up to clasp the back of Graham’s neck as he reached the point of no return, coming hard, the mess soaking into his shirt as his whole body squirmed. He pulled Graham down onto him, wanting to feel all of him, be crushed by every inch of him. 

Graham’s hand was stuck at a standstill between them, forced to be frozen by the proximity of their bodies, but the smallest movement had Terry shivering, his orgasm rushing through his body head to toe as he panted against Graham’s chest. 

After a while they untangled, Graham shifting his weight only slightly, so he lay beside Terry on the bed, his hand resting limply against Terry’s damp and soiled shirt. 

“Did that satisfy your curiosity?”

Terry nodded, humming softly as he reached a hand out beside him, feeling for the magazine he knew was still on the bed. He lifted it and stared at the open page, feeling Graham’s head turn on the bed next to him. 

“Yes, a little.” 

Graham reached up and took the copy of _Crew_ from Terry’s grasp and threw it onto the floor. “Things are always better when put into practice.” 

Terry turned onto his side and smiled. “And I have so much to learn.” 

Brushing a thumb over his lip, Graham smiled back at him. “Oh darling, you certainly do.”


End file.
